You buried Slade Wilson years ago.

You remember the weight of grief, the way it settled in your bones, heavy and unshakable. The funeral, the condolences, the empty bed, and the suffocating quiet where his voice used to be. You had mourned him. You had loved him. You had worn his ring long after the world told you to move on—until one day, you finally slipped it off.

And yet...

The rain fell in a steady rhythm, tapping against your umbrella as you walked the slick pavement. The city moved around you, faceless crowds weaving through the night, the hum of traffic blending with distant conversations. Just another evening, another routine, another walk home.

Then you saw him—across the street at the crosswalk.

Alive.

Your breath caught, fingers tightening around the umbrella handle. He stood just beyond the glow of the streetlamp, rain misting over his broad frame, his shoulders squared with that same unshakable presence. A ghost wrapped in flesh—a cruel trick of the universe. He looked unchanged, as if the years hadn’t touched him, as if he hadn’t let you believe he was gone.

Your fingers twitched, instinctively brushing against the phantom weight on your ring finger. Slade faked his death. And you? You had spent years learning how to live with that.

The crosswalk light flickers green, signaling you forward, but your feet stay rooted to the pavement. Across the street, Slade steps off the curb, his path cutting straight toward you—unhurried, inevitable.

You should keep moving—take a different route home or catch the subway, and forget this ever happened. The world tilts as your breath stutters, something tightening in your chest. And then, just as he draws closer, his eye meets yours.

The noise of the city fades, the rain dulls to a distant whisper.

And you can’t breathe.